The day Otis Parkinson became my stepfather was the same day I
began my study and worship of the great god humans call Grecolus. I was given a
leather-bound copy of the Scriptures, the holy writings of the ancient
prophets, and I was quickly taught to read it. I was instructed in the creation
of the world, the mandates Grecolus had set down for his followers to live
their lives by, and the promise of eternal life for those who remained faithful
to him. These things were good, and in my innocence, I believed them with all
my heart. But even before the seeds of doubt began to germinate in the topsoil
of my consciousness, I recognized that life and death under the law of Grecolus
was a structured framework, without room for experimentation or oddity. And at
the center of it all, was the undying assertion that Grecolus was the only true
god. His story of creation left no room for other gods, because Grecolus had
created everything, including it seemed, himself. One of his mandates forbid
the worship of false gods. The promise of eternal life in the heavens was
revoked for all who did not worship Grecolus. To me, even at that young age, it
was all an argument between the acceptance of ultimate truth and the openness
to listen to other points of view. The Grecolus-driven universe was indeed the
only way to go if it was true, but if it was not, the rejection of such
diversity to me seemed unhealthy and cruel.

+
+ +

Vrak returned Brisbane to his cage,
after threading him through the countless tunnels of the ork cave, and Brisbane
spent the entire day wallowing in the dirty straw with his two faithful
companions, pain and hunger. Before the day was over, the need for a bowel
movement came upon him and, unlike urination—which he could direct out of his
living space—he was forced to squat in one of the corners of the wagon and
leave his refuse of the floor. When finished, he kicked most of the mess out
through the bars and scrubbed the fouled area with generous handfuls of straw.
He had never felt so low and depraved in his life and could see no difference
between himself and the animals that must have once done the same thing in the
cage. It was the orks who had done this to him, and Brisbane hung tenaciously
to Angelika’s promise of vengeance.

Angelika. Where was she now?
Brisbane tried again to contact her but his second attempt was as futile as his
first had been. He had seen Vrak take her inside the cave, but Brisbane
supposed he could not be sure she was still in there. Vrak had not been able to
draw her from her scabbard, Brisbane remembered, and Angelika had said none of
the orks would be able to do so. This surely would arouse the curiosity of the
orks, to say nothing of the fact that she was found on the person of history’s
first human Grumak or, perhaps most importantly, she had an emerald the size of
a fist embedded in her pommel.

But, as Brisbane was to find out
that day, Angelika was not the only recipient of the orks’ curiosity. Word had
evidently spread about the Demosk’s judgment of his blood, and it seemed the
whole of the ork encampment passed by Brisbane’s cage that day to catch a
glimpse of such a miraculous being. Men in armor and red-eye shields, women
with dirty tunics pulled tightly over their large breasts, children with
spindly little legs and fingers in their noses—they all came to see the human
whose blood bore the bane of Gruumsh One-Eye.

Brisbane did not believe his power
came from Gruumsh One-Eye any more than he believed it came from Damaleous. His
power came from within himself, as Roystnof had taught him, and the only reason
he was not more skillful with his power was because he had not spent enough
time mastering it. He was nothing special. All these people, eyes wide with
wonder and amazement, who passed by his cage in an endless procession needed to
look no farther than themselves to see what they had come to see in Brisbane.

It was a day that passed slowly
and during which Brisbane found it difficult to think clearly. The orks—there
seemed to be so many of them—passed by with such reverence and awe that it
distracted Brisbane and kept his mind from settling down on one idea for long
scrutiny. Throughout the day his thoughts passed over many things, maybe as
many things as orks that passed by his cage. He thought about his life, the
important and not-so-important events that had led up to the situation in which
he now found himself.

He thought about Otis, the man who
had married his mother and raised him as if he were his own son. He remembered
the lessons and the moral training and the occasional spankings, yes, but he
also remembered other things, things he had not thought about for quite some
time. Brisbane remembered the times they had spent together, not as teacher and
student, but as father and son. They had played games together. Otis had been a
big fan of card games and had taught young Brisbane just about every kind there
was at one time or another. Cribbage was Otis’ favorite and he was very good at
it. The day in which Brisbane had finally beaten his stepfather, after years of
loss after loss, came flooding back in memory to him now. Brisbane had counted
his crib and triumphantly moved his peg into the 121st hole, winning the game.
He had looked up at Otis, a smile straining the edges of his small face, and
Otis had smiled warmly back at him. Otis had congratulated him and then slyly
asked if Brisbane had ever heard of a game called euchre. Brisbane had always
known the reason Otis had been strict and sometimes cruel was that he had loved
his mother and him like the family they were, but it wasn’t until now, dirty
and starving in a broken-down circus wagon, that he realized how much he had
loved Otis, too.

He thought about his mother, a
woman of impossible beauty named Amanda who had birthed him. Brisbane had many
memories about his mother, most of them warm and happy and nurturing, but ever
since that fateful day just after his eighteenth birthday

—I’m nineteen now and this December I’ll be twenty—

all his memories had been tainted
with the inevitable fact of her weakened death. Somewhere in the mists of his
recollection Brisbane could bring up, when he closed his eyes and shut out all
other thoughts, the dimmest memory of himself as an infant, teething and
drawing milk from his mother’s swollen breast. But even that was ruined by the
stigma of her death, for he knew the suckling flow had stopped completely and
her breasts, once so full and smooth and round, had drooped and wrinkled with
age and disease and were now withering into dry dust in her grave. He missed
her so much and it was times like this that he wondered how he could go on
living without her. How could he go on for such long periods of time without
thinking about her and all she meant to him?

He thought about Roystnof, his
oldest friend who he had known for six years as Roy Stonerow. Roystnof was one
of his teachers, too, like Otis, and also like Otis, Roystnof was also
something more. Brisbane loved him like a brother and felt the separation from
him perhaps more than anyone else. Roystnof was a source of other ideas, ideas
different from those set down as law by Grecolus, and may therefore have been
more appealing to the rebellious Brisbane approaching his adolescence.
Roystnof’s world was a world without gods and without the guilt and sacrifices
that gods seemed to need when they lived among men. In Roystnof’s world, man
was the master of his own destiny and it was his choice to do what he willed
with his life. Death was an ending in Roystnof’s world, not a beginning, and
when it found you, all that was left of you were your works and the memories of
you in others. It was a less comforting world, a world in which mortal meant
mortal, but through his experiences with Roystnof, Brisbane had come to suspect
it was the only kind of world that made any sense.

He thought about Shortwhiskers,
the dwarf who had come into his life one night and shown him a wizard named
Roystnof where he had previously seen a friend called Roy Stonerow. The dwarf
had also shown him another world, not the one of Moradin and Abbathor and of
the dwarven myths, but the one of stalwart adventure, a man and his sword out
to win fame and fortune. A world Nog Shortwhiskers had known for longer than
Brisbane had been alive, a world he had shared with his friend Roystnof and his
grandfather Gildegarde Brisbane. The dwarf had become such a part of his life.
They were friends, yes, but they were also something more than that. They were
companions in battle. Together they had faced and defeated orks, ogres, ettins,
and a demon. There was a special kind of bond forged there, different from the
one that attached him to Roystnof, but strong and binding all the same. In the
heat of battle, Brisbane had and would again flagrantly risk his own life to
protect Shortwhiskers’, as he knew the dwarf had and would do for him.

He thought about Stargazer, the
half-elven woman he had first seen in the town square of Queensburg on the eve
of the festival of Whiteshine. Brisbane closed his eyes and tried to remember
her beauty through the ugly images that had dominated his life since his
capture on the banks of the Mystic. He loved her, he could feel the truth of
that inflating his heart like a balloon until it pressed almost painfully
against his lungs and shortened his breath. He longed to hold her in his arms
as he remembered having once done, only this time he wanted to do more than
just snuggle for warmth beneath blankets on the floor of some tent lost in the
wilderness. Grecolus said what he wanted to do was a sin when it was done out
of wedlock, but at that moment he didn’t care. If Grecolus wanted to condemn
him for thinking of making love to Allison Stargazer while he waited in an
animal’s cage for Ternosh the Grumak to decide his fate by some drug-induced
vision of a strange race’s afterlife, Brisbane thought, then Grecolus could
take his best shot. Brisbane believed dreams and thoughts of that sort may very
well be the only things that kept him sane during this ordeal, and if he
somehow survived to see Stargazer again, he vowed to do his very best to make
these dreams come true.

He thought about Roundtower,
another warrior like Shortwhiskers, but unlike Shortwhiskers in his manner and
purpose. He was a teacher of sorts to Brisbane as well, and he was also
something more. Brisbane had an amazing amount of respect for Ignatius
Roundtower, even though he did not agree with his religious beliefs. They had
fought battles together, too, but what was different about Roundtower was the
reason why he was fighting the battles. He was following his dream to become a
Knight of Farchrist, and Brisbane could respect him for that if for nothing
else. The dream was no longer his own, but it had been his mother’s for him,
and Brisbane knew it wasn’t necessarily the content of the dream that won his
respect. It was the way Roundtower pursued it, never giving it up and moving
towards it in everything he did. He had the faith of Grecolus and was not out
adventuring to increase his wealth or fame, he was out to increase his skill
with his sword so he could serve his lord better. When Brisbane had happened
along, Angelika had left Roundtower free to pursue the next stage of his dream.
There was no guarantee he would be accepted by some knight to become a squire,
but Brisbane knew Roundtower would be there for as long as it took.

He thought about Dantrius, the
illusionist Roystnof had restored to flesh in the basilisk’s garden and who had
recognized Brisbane from a mental image of his grandfather. The man had been a
pain in Brisbane’s side since that day and the small pleasure he took in
knowing he was separated from Illzeezad Dantrius was tainted with the fearful
knowledge that the mage was still among his friends. Brisbane knew too many
things about Dantrius and he didn’t know which, if any, of them were true.
Shortwhiskers said he had betrayed King Gregorovich II at the request of the
dragon Dalanmire. Roystnof said he worshipped Damaleous and believed he got his
power from the Evil One. Brisbane was only sure of the growing dislike he felt
for the man, and had felt from him, since they had met. Brisbane hoped Dantrius
would leave them all alone, but Roystnof didn’t seem to think he would without
disturbing something. Brisbane realized that right now, Illzeezad Dantrius, and
what he might do, were the least of his problems.

He thought about Smurch, the
half-ork he had named Jack and who had been tossed in his cage the night
before. The only person within miles Brisbane could tentatively call a friend,
Brisbane was not sure what to make of this half-ork Jack Smurch. He obviously
didn’t like his life of abuse from the pure-blooded members of the clan—who
would, even if they hadn’t once been the son of a chief? Brisbane would have
liked to think he could use this against his captors somehow, maybe get Smurch
to do secret favors for him, but he didn’t know if he was ever going to see the
half-ork again. He seemed to be the only member of the Clan of the Red Eye who
hadn’t passed by to catch a glimpse of the freak Brisbane had become. Brisbane
knew. He had kept his eyes peeled for the half-ork all day.

Lastly, he thought about Grumak
Ternosh, the ork who had the power of magic at his disposal and the one who
would decide Brisbane’s fate. The question of Ternosh’s power was still a
puzzle to Brisbane. He had worked a cantrip in what the Grumak had declared as
an anti-magic zone, and so Brisbane questioned just how powerful his magic
could be. Even what had just happened in the Grumak’s chamber, which appeared
to have been a powerful example of summoning and divining magic, might have
been no more than a hallucination caused by the inhalation of the smoke from
that strange red powder. It was obvious the incense had been some kind of drug
and while he was under the influence, Brisbane could be sure of nothing he
sensed. The entire episode with the Demosk, whatever that really was, had
possessed a dream-like quality, and it could have been as unreal as Brisbane’s
feeling of floating free from his chains.

These are the people who walked
through Brisbane’s thoughts as he sat in his cage, trying to ignore the orks
outside and waiting for the return of Ternosh the Grumak. He wondered if he
shouldn’t try to formulate some sort of plan of escape but the idea seemed
strangely ridiculous to him, knowing as little as he did about his surroundings
and the potential events of the next few hours. Any plan he could devise was
more than likely doomed to failure by any one of a thousand variables Brisbane
had no control over. To play it by ear was as detailed a plan Brisbane felt he
should make and he pessimistically realized this was pretty much the same plan
he had followed for his entire life so far.

The waiting and the flood of
orkish bodies past his cage finally ended that day when Ternosh emerged from
the cave mouth in his red robes with Vrak right on his heels. The Grumak came
out and stood before Brisbane, glaring angrily at him for several seconds
before turning to address the crowd of orks in their native language.

It was a speech of sorts and
Brisbane watched as the men, women, and children listened silently and
wide-eyed to every word. The whole while Vrak stood behind Ternosh’s right
shoulder and he would occasionally turn and burn Brisbane with a mixed look of
fear and hatred. Brisbane wished time and again he could understand orkish so
he would know what it was Ternosh was telling his people, but it was a wish
that went ungranted. As he finished, Ternosh raised his hands to the massed populace
and sent his voice up many decibels. He rang a final sentence out over their
heads and the people reacted with cries of surprise and triumph. When Ternosh
lowered his arms, the people quieted and began to slowly disperse back into the
settlement.

Ternosh and Vrak turned back to
Brisbane. He had come to the front of his cage and had his hands curled around
the bars as he watched his audience stream away from him.

Ternosh waited until Brisbane took
notice of his angry stare. “Well, Brisbane,” the Grumak said when he had the
human’s attention. “It seems He-Who-Watches has revealed to me his purpose in
granting the powers of my kind upon a human.”

Ternosh motioned to Vrak and the
ork went over to the door of the circus wagon. Vrak worked at the lock with his
key and opened the door. He did not enter the wagon. He did not have any other
guards with him. Brisbane looked at him for a long moment and then turned back
to Ternosh.

“We are all creatures of duty,”
the Grumak said seriously. “Some of us are more powerful than others, but in
the end, we are all creatures of duty. What I am about to do, I do because it
is my duty to do so. Personally, I do not agree with this action, but it seems
the path has already been made for me, and now I must walk down it.”

All the other orks were still
leaving the scene. This discourse confused Brisbane profoundly. What was
Ternosh talking about? What was he about to do?

“You can come out of your cage,
Brisbane,” Ternosh said.

Brisbane did nothing.

The Grumak addressed Vrak in
orkish. Reluctantly, Vrak backed away from the open cage door.

“Come on,” Ternosh said to
Brisbane. “I have little time for your dalliance.”

Brisbane began to move slowly out
of his cage. He arrived at the door and Vrak backed off another few paces.
Brisbane stood half-in and half-out of the door and looked up at the darkening
sky. Vrak had freed him of his bonds and his gag when the ork had returned him
to the cage, and without them the outside air smelled a bit sweeter and the sky
looked a bit wider. Brisbane started down the few wooden steps and stood upon
the hard earth. Vrak grimaced at him as he made his way around the wagon to
stand in front of Ternosh.

The Grumak put his hands on his
hips and sized Brisbane up and down. “You are free, Brisbane. You may leave
this camp.”

Brisbane did not move.

Ternosh spoke to Vrak in a
commanding tone, then turned back to address Brisbane. “I have told Vrak not to
molest you. If you wish it, Vrak will even escort you from the camp. I am
serious. You are truly free to go.”

Brisbane looked the Grumak over
very carefully. Something smelled extremely fishy here. Vrak and Ternosh were
now the only two orks within a hundred yards and the others were getting
farther away every second. Ternosh seemed sincere but there was an odd little
twinkle in his remaining red eye that sent shivers up and down Brisbane’s
spine.

On the surface of his
consciousness, Brisbane was convinced this offer of freedom was some kind of
trick, something Ternosh wanted Brisbane to jump up at so he could be knocked
down even further. He simply could not accept the fact that the orks would just
let him go after all they had done to keep him here. But subconsciously, deep
down in the pool of Brisbane’s thoughts, so deep that the surface was
undisturbed by it, a soft and seductive feminine voice begged Brisbane not to
leave without her, reminding Brisbane vengeance would be theirs if he would
only be patient and strong.

A full minute of silence went by
as Brisbane stood there in indecision. The whole time Ternosh seemed to be
studying Brisbane’s face, as if he planned to paint it later from memory. When
the minute had passed, and neither Brisbane, Ternosh, nor Vrak had taken a
single step in any direction, Ternosh threw his head back and began to laugh.

“So,” the Grumak said, composing
himself with some difficulty. “It is true. You will not leave. I did not
believe it even though I heard it from the mouth of my own Demosk. There is
something holding you here and you will not leave until you have acquired it.
Good. Very good.”

Brisbane lowered his head. He
could feel the force holding him here and yet he did not fully understand it.
How could Angelika exert such a power over him? He was free to go, Ternosh
would not stop him, and still his feet did not move. Just how much did that
sword come to mean to him, anyway?

“What are you going to do with
me?” Brisbane asked.

Ternosh seemed surprised Brisbane
had even spoken. “Why, you will go into training, of course. You have just
become my apprentice, Brisbane. You will be instructed in the magic and worship
of He-Who-Watches and, when the time comes, you might very well become the
Grumak of the Clan of the Red Eye.”

Brisbane did not like the sound of
that. He wasn’t about to become the Grumak of any clan, and he certainly wasn’t
going to start worshipping Gruumsh One-Eye. But that did not really matter, for
in Ternosh’s words, Brisbane did not hear the threats of a controlled existence
under the repressive arm of yet another primitive religion. What he did hear
was a promise to go on living. The orks were not going to kill him, they were
going to give him some time and, in that time, Brisbane nurtured a glimmer of
hope he would somehow be able to recover Angelika and extract their vengeance
from the hides of the orks around him.

Ternosh asked Brisbane to follow
him and the Grumak led him into the cave. Vrak predictably fell into step right
behind them.